


time is a tree

by chaosmanor



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: vo_xmas, Family, Fic Exchange, Food, Love, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-27
Updated: 2005-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.</p><p>Written for watersword as part of the vo_xmas fic exchange. Poem quoted is <i>as freedom is a breakfastfood</i> by e. e. cummings.</p>
    </blockquote>





	time is a tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [watersword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watersword/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
> 
> Written for watersword as part of the vo_xmas fic exchange. Poem quoted is _as freedom is a breakfastfood_ by e. e. cummings.

Blue was engrossing, so many ways it slid across the canvas, scrubbed-out sky and faded photographic print, and it took a moment for Viggo to realise the phone was ringing.

He got to the phone in the kitchen before it rang off, and yawned and stretched and said, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Orlando’s voice said, and Viggo found himself smiling just at the sound.

“Hey,” he said back, and he glanced at the clock. Somewhere, somehow, it had become very late. “You waking up for the day?”

“Yeah,” Orlando said. “Alarm’s rung. Found myself missing you, wishing you were here, or I was there.”

There was something congealing on the counter, and Viggo ignored it and leaned over and turned the element on under the kettle. It was too late for maté, or for anything with caffeine in it, but he could do with something warm to drink, just for the comfort of holding a hot mug.

“Wish that too,” Viggo said. “Want me to give you a hand?”

They’d been doing this for a long time, working in different time zones, on different continents, making do with phone calls and wishes, and Viggo was over it. He wanted Orlando home, where he belonged.

“Yeah,” Orlando breathed, and God, Viggo could almost see him wrapping his hand around his cock. “Wanna hear?”

Viggo laughed, and the fluorescent light was hard, making his eyes sting. There was the sound of skin moving over skin, and it hurt his chest a little to hear it, then Orlando’s breathing was back, and he said, “Talk to me?”

“Sure,” Viggo said, and his eyes settled on the box of granola that probably had a place in the cupboard, but that actually lived on the top of the fridge, where at least he could find it. “as freedom is a breakfastfood…”

He talked, running the words over in his mind, and Orlando’s breathing grew louder, and Viggo found himself stumbling a little while saying, “and every finger is a toe, and any courage is a fear.”

He knew the poem so well, it seemed there had never been a time when he hadn’t known it, every word, every pause, and he knew every sound that Orlando was making too, but like the poem, it still burned right through him.

“time is a tree (this life one leaf),” he said, and he was glad he was alone in the house because it felt like his heart was breaking, just like it did every time one of them went away.

“but love is the sky, and I am for you,” he whispered, knowing Orlando wouldn’t be able to hear him, not right at that moment, but he’d said the words, or similar ones, over and over; and it wouldn’t be right, not until Orlando came home again.

“just so long and long enough,” Viggo said. “Come home soon.”

“Soon,” Orlando said, and Viggo could hear him take a deep breath. “Next week. I’ll be back next week.”

Viggo reached for the herbal tea bags, and dropped one in his cup. “I can’t wait.”

 

 

There was something about the early morning, a virtuous clarity fed by blossom-tinted sky and the gentle thump-thump of lunatic joggers’ footsteps that inspired Viggo to new heights of lyricism, words that crept out in the dawn, but hid again once the harsh light of day hit them. Pity he had to actually get out of bed to make it happen though.

He was having one of those moments, while waiting for the coffee maker to drip and the kettle to boil for his maté, contemplating the rosy beauty of the ham he was hacking into slabs, the fugacious delight of field mushrooms the size of steaks, the inevitable paleness of the milk. Everything felt so new, so fresh, and there was no joy quite like it.

The kitchen counters were stacked with used dinner plates, lumpy saucepans, abandoned wineglasses, the detritus of a meal that had satisfied the senses, though not as much as the fucking afterwards; and there was a thought that made him rub at his balls through his shorts.

Not a good thing to do while cooking, especially with someone else in the house; the oil in the pan began to bubble, and he dropped the ham slabs in, then tossed in the mushrooms.

The kettle whistled, and Viggo poured the water out into a thermos and went about the ritual of preparing his maté, spooning in the yerba, adding the cooling water, a little at a time so the flakes swelled up, filling the gourd.

The hot water system clanged, meaning Orlando had finally made it out of bed and into the shower, giving Viggo at least forty-five minutes to prepare breakfast. Plenty of time to stand in thoughtful and absent-minded contemplation, leaning against the counter, maté bombilla in his mouth, close enough to prevent an incendiary incident with the ham and mushrooms, but still within reach of the water for his maté.

He was still there, flipping the ham occasionally, breathing in the caramelizing perfection of the morning, when Orlando came charging down the stairs, towel wrapped around his hips, hair dripping.

“Fuck,” Orlando said, sliding into the kitchen and tossing a kitchen cupboard open in order to grab a cleanish coffee cup. “I’m going to be late…”

He recklessly tipped coffee from the jug into the cup, added a wave of milk, and Viggo wrapped an arm around his waist, bringing him close for a hug.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Orlando asked, slurping his coffee and sighing appreciatively.

“Which bit of ‘Wake up, Orlando! Your alarm has gone off,’ counts as not waking you?” Viggo asked, abandoning his gourd in favour of having two hands to touch Orlando with.

“Um, the bit where I go back to sleep?” Orlando asked, and Viggo ran the palm of his hand over Orlando’s belly, luxuriating in this, the early-morning intimacy.

Now Orlando was home, Viggo could touch Orlando’s belly whenever he wanted, at least whenever he could get Orlando to stay still long enough, and this morning-coffee moment, while Orlando was in the thrall of the dripdripdrip of the coffee maker, was one of those times.

The towel was heavy and damp when Viggo squeezed the fabric over Orlando’s cock. “Mmm, you taste good…” he murmured against Orlando’s neck, and rivulets of shower water ran down Orlando’s back, sliding between their bodies and waking deep curling lust in Viggo’s belly.

Orlando chuckled, and his cock lurched beneath Viggo’s hand. “Shower gel,” Orlando said. “You should try it.”

Orlando turned around, leaned back against the breakfast bar, dislodging small breakable items on the other side of it, and there was open invitation there, in his eyes as well as the swell of the towelling.

“Drink your coffee,” Viggo said, and there were crusts—or something—on the floor, hard grit under Viggo’s knees, and the towel fell away, dropping reluctantly from Orlando’s cock. Viggo quite understood how the towel felt. When he glanced up, Orlando was sipping his coffee obediently, impudent grin curling around the mug.

Fuck, but he was beautiful; dark wet curls, balls the colour of aged burgundy silk curtains, and his cock, long and lean and gently curved, made for so many things, preferably all at once.

Even clean, the taste was unmistakable, lived-in skin, sweat, the taste of life itself, and Viggo curled his fingers over Orlando’s hipbones and pushed his mouth down the length of Orlando’s cock.

Orlando shifted, spreading his feet a little apart, perhaps to stabilise himself, perhaps in invitation, and Viggo pressed his fingers up, behind Orlando’s balls, and began the slow suck and slide, coaxing tiny noises out of Orlando, sounds that were suddenly loud when the sizzling from the pan stopped and metal clattered against metal on the stove top as Orlando slid the pan off the heat.

It wouldn’t take long, Orlando was so needy first thing in the morning, body composed entirely of raw longing, hungers woken by the rising sun.

There it was, the trembling tightness of thigh muscles, urgent gasp, and come was flooding Viggo’s mouth, and when he lifted his mouth off Orlando, he wiped it on his forearm.

There was bliss creeping around the corners of Orlando’s lips, creasing the skin there, and he hauled Viggo to his feet and wrapped his arms around his neck to kiss him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, coffee-flavoured skin, and he tightened his hold on Viggo, pressing his hips and belly forward so Viggo’s cock was sandwiched between them. “Want me to do the same for you?”

“If you do, it’ll take me hours to come tonight,” Viggo said. He was pushing fifty, and sometimes he was acutely aware of this.

“Could be good,” Orlando said, and one hand insinuated itself down the back of Viggo’s shorts.

“Sure, you think that now, but how tired will you be tonight?” Viggo asked, and Orlando sighed.

“Yeah, true,” he said, and Viggo leaned over and pulled the pan back over the heat.

“Want some breakfast?” he asked.

“Fuck, yeah,” Orlando said, and he sounded like the morning, and Viggo knew the words would be gone once the ordinary day began.

 

Henry crashed through, there was no other way to describe it, thudding his laptop in its case onto the kitchen table, tipping over something that probably was precious, if Viggo could only remember why he’d put it there, or even what it was.

“Hi, Dad!” he called out, and the fridge door creaked open. “Is there anything to eat?” Viggo looked up from the proofs he was checking, and Henry said, “Hey! There’s food in your fridge. Can I have some?”

“Sure,” Viggo said, gladly abandoning checking the manuscript, and following his son into the kitchen. “What do you want?”

“Are we talking food, or in a more general context?” Henry asked, and he pushed aside the bowl of tabouli that Viggo had made for his lunch and flipped the chopping board over to find a cleaner surface.

“Both,” Viggo said, and he handed over the upright loaf of sourdough bread that he’d bought earlier.

“Cheese sandwiches,” Henry said. “And to borrow your car tonight. How’s that?”

Viggo took the white paper-wrapped pack of cheddar out of the fridge too, and tossed it to Henry. “What’s wrong with your car?” he asked. “Cut me two slices too.”

“Um,” Henry said, and he looked up sheepishly, bread knife in his hand. “I, um, crunched it again and it’s in the shop, and I’ve got a date.”

Viggo closed his eyes briefly, and Henry hurried on, saying, “Mom lent me hers for today, but she says please can I use yours.”

“How bad is it?” Viggo asked, and he took the two pieces of bread that Henry passed over to him. “Are you OK?”

“I backed into the tree at Mom’s,” Henry said apologetically. “No casualties.”

Viggo let out a deep breath. “No. If Chris is silly enough to lend you her car with your record, it doesn’t compel me to do the same. Either acquire a car from somewhere else or go out on a date on public transport.”

Henry made a face and hacked at the loaf. “Can tell you don’t date,” he muttered, and Viggo shook his head and took a plate out of the cupboard.

He piled tabouli onto the bread on the plate, added some cheese, and left Henry to his sulking.

 

There was a time of day, late in the afternoon, when the sun slanted through the kitchen window, painting everything luminous gold, and the dust glittered, rising and falling on the drafts of air through the open doors to the deck.

There were good things happening in the kitchen: rosemary and olive oil and garlic wafted out of the oven, and the water in the sink was warm and peaceful. Viggo washed the crystal wine glasses carefully, spectral light glancing up the wall when the sun struck them, the last survivors from a set that someone had been stupid enough to give him and Chris when they’d married.

Couldn’t put them through the dishwasher, they’d go cloudy, might even chip.

Couldn’t put some of the electrical stuff in the dishwasher either, something he’d established through trial and error. Yes to the deep fat fryer, no to the popcorn maker and electric knife.

There was food for that night; a chunk of goat, young and tender; roast potatoes; celeriac to be steamed and drenched in butter. Henry had hung around, much to Viggo’s surprise, cancelling his date and deciding that he’d better do some study, disappearing off to pick Chris up from work, then being dropped back at Viggo’s half an hour later.

“Honey, I’m home,” Chris called out, and she walked into the kitchen behind Henry, sniffing the air delightedly. “That smells fucking fantastic,” she said, and she kissed Viggo’s cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

“Goat,” Viggo said, and Chris wrinkled her nose and opened the oven door a crack to peer in.

“That’s disgusting,” she said. “Do you reckon Jason would notice if I didn’t go home for dinner?”

“Depends whether he’s cooking or you are,” Viggo said, and he opened the fridge door and handed Chris a beer. “Ring him up and get him to come over too. Got time to talk?”

“Sure, hon,” Chris said, popping the top off the beer and taking a long pull. “Fuck, that’s good. Is it about Henry denting his car again? He whinged to me all the way here about how you wouldn’t lend him your car tonight. I told him to shut up, and that he could pay the excess on the insurance claim himself this time.”

“Ah,” Viggo said. “He managed to give me the impression that you weren’t worried about this incident, that it was a mere trifle, and that I was being unreasonable.”

Chris chuckled, and burped. “Fuck, no. I only let him have my car for the day because he had this project thing he had to take to school, and I didn’t have time to drop him there myself.”

“Good,” Viggo said. “‘United we stand, divided we have to repeat ourselves,’” he quoted. It was their parenting motto, born out of Henry’s expertise at playing the pair of them off against each other.

 

Faced with the impossible task of clearing his dining table, Viggo had opted for moving the stuff from his kitchen table instead. There the debris was less about pieces he was working on and more about meals from three weeks ago, and sorting it out had been a good thing anyway.

Orlando was in the kitchen, opening another bottle of the red Viggo had bought back with him from Spain, and Viggo hugged him from behind and dropped another dirty plate on the counter.

Jason was laughing, loud and deep, and Orlando sighed and turned around in Viggo’s arms. “I know they’re family,” Orlando said quietly, while Chris started shrieking with laughter too in the other room, “but I just want to be alone with you.”

“I know,” Viggo said, and his fingers worked in around the top of Orlando’s shoulders. “But Henry won’t be here for much longer, he’ll be off at college, I want to make the most of this time.”

“Oh God,” Orlando whispered when Viggo dug his fingers in deeper. “Don’t stop… I don’t care who you invite to dinner or how loud they are…”

 

Jason, Henry and Chris were now gone, leaving an apocalyptic kitchen, and Viggo stuffed another dinner plate into the dishwasher at random, and checked that the dishwasher door still closed.

Orlando carried in the platter the dismembered leg of goat was on, and balanced it precariously on top of another plate. “More wine?” he asked, and Viggo straightened himself up and stretched, cracking his back.

“Yeah,” Viggo said, and Orlando handed him one of the crystal goblets, and the wine was the colour of blood, of his heart.

It went down smooth, long glide of crimson down his throat, and Orlando leaned against Viggo, sleepy eyes and a mouth that needed to be kissed.

They should go to bed, leave the godawful mess in the kitchen, take what was left of the bottle of wine and the two glasses, and go to bed, but Orlando’s mouth was pliant against Viggo’s, open and waiting, and the last thing he wanted was to break the moment by speaking.

Tomorrow was the weekend: they’d sleep in, wake slowly, rising through the light of the day, and they’d make love under the worn quilt on Viggo’s bed; the languorous weight of the next morning was already upon Viggo’s limbs, in the slide of his hand over Orlando’s arm, and the slow curve of muscle beneath skin.

He sucked on Orlando’s neck, the rise and fall of Orlando’s breath gentle against his cheek, and Orlando’s fingers flicked the button fly of his jeans undone.

He needed this desperately, needed to curl his fingers around the edge of the counter, brace himself, his life worn away like denim, becoming soft and supple with time, while Orlando’s mouth was on his cock, and wine lingered.

There was no substitute, no reprieve, all he wanted was that moment, for the ache inside him to build and build, and it must have shown because Orlando stood up again and guided Viggo around to face the counter.

His jeans and shorts slid down easily, and Orlando’s fingertips pressed into the cheeks of his ass; there was the moment of uncompromising truth about what they did, who they were, and Viggo groaned helplessly.

Orlando’s tongue was slick and slippery, teasing, taking, and Viggo was beginning to grunt when Orlando stood up behind him. There was oil in the kitchen: olive oil, smelling of dark forests; hazelnut oil, tasting of the warm sun, Viggo couldn’t tell which one Orlando was using, didn’t care, not with two fingers sliding in and out of him.

“Ready?” Orlando asked, and Viggo swallowed and tightened his grip on the counter.

He wanted—he wasn’t sure what: for this not to be happening, for it not mean so much, for it never to end; and Orlando swore, sudden and loud in the kitchen over the faint tick of the clock.

“Yes,” Viggo said, consent for everything, and Orlando pulled back smoothly, to the point at which it stung, then pushed back in again, sweet and hot and deep.

If it didn’t feel so fucking good for both of them, Viggo would never do this, never give himself this way, never let anyone see him so desperate and unmade; he’d never let Orlando go again either, would hold him forever.

He fell to pieces, one sweet fucking stroke at a time, clutching onto the counter, making his eyes focus on an abandoned knife, on a lone grape, just to try and hold back the tidal wave.

He couldn’t, not indefinitely, not once Orlando began stroking him; double desire, double vision.

He cried out, clenching jaw, stomach muscles, ass, and there was the moment of blinding epiphany, flashes of light in his eyes, knees giving way, life slipping away, at least for a moment.

Orlando was right there, holding him steady, groaning wetly against Viggo’s shoulder as his cock slid slowly out.

“Oh God,” Orlando whispered. “Come to bed? Quickly, before we fall over?”

“Yeah,” Viggo gasped. “Now.”

 

He woke, sometime deep in the night, and Orlando was deeply asleep beside him, arm flung out across the pillow, still at home, still in their bed.

The house was still lit up when Viggo padded through it, naked under the unwarranted lights, and he flicked off switch after switch until he stood in darkness in the kitchen, grit under his feet, so happy he might just break.

There was orange juice in the fridge, and the light was silver when he opened the fridge door, leaving it open while he poured juice into a randomly chosen wine goblet.

He was thirsty, from wine and sex and food, possibly the three greatest pleasures known to humanity, and the orange juice slaked him.

He poured Orlando one too, in a coffee mug, to take back and put beside the bed, ready for the morning.


End file.
